There are moments when I watch my mind and wonder:
Who is it that doubts?
Who decides?
Who remembers?
And who is this “I” that seems to be at the centre of it all?
Indian wisdom offers a fascinating lens through which to explore these questions. Rather than treating the mind as a single entity, it describes an Antaḥkaraṇa—the inner instrument—with four distinct functions:
- Manas – the mind
- Buddhi – the intellect
- Ahaṅkāra – the sense of “I”
- Chitta – the storehouse of impressions
Together, they shape almost every human experience.
What fascinates me is that these four functions are sometimes symbolically associated with four principles: Chandra, Brahma, Rudra, and Kṣetrajña. Whether this correspondence is universally accepted or not, the symbolism itself offers a beautiful framework for contemplation.
—
Chandra and Manas
The mind is rarely still.
It wanders, imagines, worries, hopes, compares, and reacts.
Like the moon, it reflects whatever comes before it.
One moment calm.
Another disturbed.
Just as the moon waxes and wanes, the mind too changes shape depending on circumstances.
This is why many traditions associateManas with Chandra, the lunar principle.
The moon does not create its own light.
It reflects.
Much of the mind functions the same way.
It reflects the world.
It reflects our experiences.
It reflects our conditioning.
And often, we mistake those reflections for reality.
—
Brahma and Buddhi
If Manas asks questions, Buddhi answers them.
Buddhi is discernment.
Clarity.
The ability to distinguish between appearance and essence.
Impulse and wisdom.
Noise and signal.
Creation is not merely about bringing something into existence.
It is about bringing order to chaos.
In that sense, Brahma, the cosmic creator, becomes a fitting symbol for Buddhi.
Each time we make a thoughtful decision, a new possibility is created.
Each time clarity emerges from confusion, our inner Brahma is at work.
—
Rudra and Ahaṅkāra
This association puzzled me initially.
Why connect Rudra with the ego?
If anything, Rudra appears to destroy ego.
Perhaps that is precisely the point.
Ahaṅkāra is not arrogance.
It is simply the sense of “I”.
The mechanism that says:
“I am doing.”
“I am feeling.”
“I am thinking.”
Without it, ordinary life would be impossible.
Yet when this identification becomes rigid, suffering follows.
Rudra enters not as the creator of ego, but as its purifier.
He dissolves false identities.
The identities we collect through titles, roles, achievements, beliefs, and fears.
In that sense, Rudra reminds me that the problem is not having an ego.
The problem is mistaking it for who I truly am.
—
Chitta and Kṣetrajña
Of the four, Chitta feels the most mysterious.
Every experience leaves a trace.
Every joy.
Every disappointment.
Every conversation.
Every fear.
Like footprints on wet sand.
These impressions accumulate in Chitta.
The vast reservoir of memories, tendencies, and subconscious patterns.
Yet there seems to be something even deeper.
The one that notices these memories.
The one that observes the changing contents of the mind.
The Bhagavad Gita calls this the Kṣetrajña—the Knower of the Field.
Chitta may be the field of impressions.
Kṣetrajña is the witness.
The silent awareness in whose presence thoughts arise and disappear.
—
The Journey of an Experience
Seen together, the Antaḥkaraṇa becomes a beautiful map.
A sight, sound, or experience appears.
Manas receives it.
Buddhi interprets it.
Ahaṅkāra claims it.
Chitta stores it.
And throughout the entire process, the witness remains unchanged.
The experience comes.
The experience goes.
The witness remains.
—
A Reflection
Perhaps self-inquiry is not about improving the mind.
Perhaps it is about understanding it.
Seeing its patterns.
Recognising its movements.
Appreciating its brilliance.
And gradually discovering that while thoughts, memories, roles, identities, and emotions constantly change, something fundamental does not.
The sages called that witness Kṣetrajña.
The yogis called it Atman.
Others may call it awareness, presence, consciousness, or simply stillness.
Whatever name we give it, the invitation remains the same:
To observe.
To enquire.
To remember that we are not merely the contents of the mind.
We are also the space in which the mind appears.
—
Closing Reflection
When the moon is agitated, the reflection trembles.
When the moon is still, the lake becomes clear.
Yet whether the reflection dances or settles, the sky above remains untouched.
Maybe the work is not to become a different sky.
Maybe it is simply to recognise that we were always the sky.
